2

The howl split the sky just as the sun dipped below the ridge. Deep, guttural, and ancient—it rolled down the mountain like thunder.

Riven lifted his head at the sound, heart pounding in his chest. For days, there had been no word. The warriors had vanished into the borderlands, led by Kaelen himself, and those left behind had kept their silence. But now… now the sound of horns followed the howl, three long blasts that signaled only one thing.

Victory.

“They’re back!” someone cried from the village square.

Riven didn’t rush. He stood in the stone archway of the high hall, his hands gently folding together, long crimson sleeves falling like waterfalls around his wrists. The robe he wore was stitched with thin silver thread—a gift from his mother before he left his homeland—and he had painted his lips the soft red of crushed berries, the same way Moonmist dancers did before ceremonial prayers.

His heart raced. But his face stayed calm.

Down below, the pack was already gathering. Wolves in human form and wolf form alike clustered near the forest’s edge. Elders stood tall in dark cloaks, while children clambered up crates and rooftops to get a better view.

And then, hooves—followed by paws.

The first of the riders burst through the treeline, black flags held high, fangs bared in grins of triumph. Mud covered their armor, blood stained their axes, but they moved like shadows, like kings of the forest returning home.

At the center rode Kaelen.

He sat atop a massive black direwolf, the reins in one hand, his other resting on the hilt of his sword. His dark hair was tangled and wet, stuck to his neck. There was a cut over his cheekbone, and blood on his knuckles, but his eyes—those sharp, winter-storm eyes—searched the crowd until they found Riven.

Riven didn’t smile.

He just looked at Kaelen, unblinking, chin slightly tilted. A silent statement: I waited. I didn’t doubt you.

Kaelen’s mouth twitched upward for half a second.

Then the pack swallowed him up, warriors clapping him on the back, howls erupting like wildfire. The drums started not long after, low and deep, pulsing through the ground like a second heartbeat. Torches were lit along the stone paths, smoke rising into the night air.

Celebration had begun.

“Bring the meat!” an elder shouted. “Tonight, we feast!”

“The wives will dance!” someone howled.

“Yes, let the spirits see our joy!”

All around the great bonfire, the pack formed a circle. The older women passed goblets of spiced wine and handed out silver bells to the spouses of warriors. It was an old tradition—when the warriors returned victorious, their mates would dance in offering, in pride, in joy. It was sacred. It was expected.

Riven remained seated on the wide stone steps, just beyond the circle. He held no goblet. He wore no bells.

He wasn’t from this pack.

“He won’t dance,” someone whispered behind a hand. “Moonmist don’t celebrate like we do.”

“I heard they only dance behind temple walls, in silence.”

“Maybe he’s afraid.”

“He’ll humiliate our alpha.”

Riven heard it all. He always did. Even when they spoke in low tones, even when they smiled politely to his face. They thought he didn’t belong. That Kaelen had married him for diplomacy, not love. That he was soft. A pretty thing tucked behind silk and stillness.

Across the fire, Kaelen sat on the high log, a goblet in hand, cloak draped over one shoulder. His warriors filled the circle, already laughing and sharing meat and stories of bloodshed. But his eyes never strayed from Riven.

Riven met his gaze. Held it.

Then he rose.

The air shifted.

He walked barefoot across the stone ring, his robe fluttering around his legs like whispering flame. The drums faltered for a breath, unsure. Riven stepped into the center of the circle without speaking.

He raised both hands to the moon.

And the drums resumed—slower now, deeper.

Riven closed his eyes.

He moved like water.

His arms curved, slow at first, then faster—hips rolling with the rhythm, bare feet stamping in soft pulses. He twirled, robe flaring like a crimson flame, silver threads catching the firelight. His body twisted, arched, bent backward as if carried by unseen winds.

He wasn’t just dancing.

He was invoking something.

Gasps filled the silence. The music grew wilder. Riven’s breath came in soft pants, sweat gleaming on his collarbone as he dipped low to the earth, hands grazing the ground, then shot up again like a phoenix in full flame.

One of the older women whispered, “Spirits... he’s trained.”

Another said, stunned, “That’s not temple dance. That’s war praise.”

“I’ve never seen a body move like that…”

Kaelen stood slowly, unable to stay seated. His goblet fell from his hand unnoticed. He stepped toward the ring, eyes wide. It was the first time most had ever seen the hardened alpha look… breathless.

When Riven’s final spin slowed and he came to a stop, arms still raised, chest heaving, hair clinging to his flushed face, the fire flared behind him, lighting his silhouette like a god descending.

Silence.

And then—

Howls.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

The pack howled in awe, in respect, in thunderous celebration. Riven slowly opened his eyes and looked directly at Kaelen.

Kaelen stepped forward.

He didn’t speak.

He crossed the fire ring in five long strides, reached for Riven, and pulled him flush against his chest. The alpha’s hands were rough and warm, gripping his waist tightly.

“You waited for me,” Kaelen murmured into his hair.

“Always,” Riven whispered.

“And you danced. For me.”

“For the spirits too,” Riven added, smiling. “But yes. For you.”

Kaelen cupped his face and kissed him. Not roughly. Not possessively. Just full of heat and gratitude and awe.

And from all around, the pack watched—not with ridicule, not with doubt, but with reverence.

One of the elders muttered, “The Moonmist boy is not just pretty.”

“No,” another agreed. “He’s one of us now.”

That night, the celebration roared into dawn, but the only thing Kaelen wanted to hold onto was the warmth of Riven’s body, the memory of his dance, and the silent fire that lived in his mate’s eyes.

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